EPISODE TWENTY-EIGHT
1797 Words
TWENTY-EIGHT
We experienced a false dawn, with the sky lighter to the east just as we were turning in for the narrow entrance between the towering cliffs of the Coastguard Station.
By the time we entered the channel it became dark again, only the dull red glow from the remains of coastguards’ hut to steer by.
The tension increased as the dank, smelly columns of ancient stone, reflecting the dull red in a wet manner, seemed to swallow them up. With the noise of the sea closed out, and the engine throttled right back, they drifted in uneasy silence. The boat grated against the small jetty.
The first policeman ashore, a sergeant, leapt on to the stone flight of steps and scrambled up to the top. He was soon joined by a second and third, and then craft became securely tied up. The rest of the party filed on to the jetty. I joined Roome, having helped Walton on to the steps. The Inspector looked around at his small force.
“Who’s got the lights? Turn them on.”
Two great beams cut into the darkness, the light bouncing back off the cliffs and lighting up the faces of the men.
“Right, let’s move on.”
In single file, rifles at the ready, we wound our way up the tight little path. As we reached the top, Roome halted the column and raised a loud hailer.
“This is the police. McQueen, can you hear me?”
We waited. I noticed the sky beginning to lighten again. No reply appeared to be forthcoming.
Roome said nothing more, he just waved the column forward, indicating for me to lead a second group alongside him. I drew my revolver and, crouching, advanced on the other side of the now widening path.
The real dawn came on swiftly, the sky turning pink behind the black gaunt ribs of the burnt-out building.
The men silently fanned out, warily circling the still glowing wreckage.
Roome suddenly raised his hand, freezing the men around him.
“Listen.”
I stopped my men.
The sound of the tapping reached them in bursts. Roome moved his head around, trying to find the direction.
“It’s coming from over there.”
He moved forward again, very slowly, picking his way cautiously past the misshapen lumps of twisted steel.
“Maybe somebody’s trapped.”
Doctor Walton’s face as he looked around showed, if Roome could have seen it, that he thought very unlikely.
The tapping grew louder as we approached a particularly strange-humped area. The sweet sticky smell of burnt flesh reached up into his nostrils. Before us was something that we did not immediately recognize, and then a black charred torso took shape, hanging over a twisted metal windowsill that had sunk into the crumbling incinerated meat. A bony hand devoid of flesh, tapped against metal in the wind.
One of the constables turned away, face shocked, as Roome hesitantly bent down to the body, and shone his torch on the hideously disfigured, hairless head. It was swollen to half again its normal size; cracked open and shiny like baked clay, except for the white brain glistening in the bottom of the cracks, the whole thing looking like a well-done potato from a bonfire.
“I can’t be sure, but it looks like Rodwell. The poor fucker must have been trying to get out.”
I stood beside Roome, my men began to face outwards in a protective manner, rifles at the ready, as it became apparent that nobody, no ‘thing’, lurked in the ruins.
Roome turned towards me wearily, like an old man.
“Find anything.”
I shook my head.
“Nothing. I will tell you one thing though. This appears to have been the fierce blaze from hell. The oil storage tanks blew up. Nothing left except the radio room. It is protected by a special door.”
Roome nodded at the remains.
“I think that might be Rodwell. No sign of McQueen or Pendergrass?”
“No.”
We both looked around at the mess and the red hot still smouldering centre.
“If they are in there, it will take a month of Sundays to find them.”
Roome looked up at the surrounding snow and rocks.
“Sergeant, take four men and have a good look around over there. See if you can find any trace of the other two men.”
“Sir.”
The sergeant pointed out the nearest men.
“You lads come with me.”
He started to move when Roome called after him.
“Sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“Watch out.”
“I will, sir.”
Roome turned to another man.
“Take the rest and search in the opposite direction. Don’t go too far.”
“Yes, sir.”
Left alone, Roome turned to me.
“You are thinking what I am?”
I kicked at a piece of flaky timber.
“If that this was no ordinary fire, then yes.”
Roome nodded.
“No doubt about it in my mind. Nobody appears to have survived, and I cannot see any sign of any attempt to fight the fire. And this…”
He waved around at the twisted steel.
“…looks more like an aircraft crash than a building. And, we’ve had a few of those since 1939.”
I stiffened.
“That’s it. The fuel has been set on fire and it seems to be deliberate. The place must have been overflowing with it.”
Roome looked around, despair turning to anger.
“That f*****g thing murdered them.”
Both of us could not help but look down at the victim at our feet. Our agony cut short by a shout from over the cliffs.
“They’ve found something.”
Roome wasted no time in running in the direction, leaving me to catch him up. Roome puffed like a wheezing asthmatic as he reached the other policemen.
“What is it?”
“Down there, sir.”
We followed the direction of the outstretched pointing hand. There, nestling in the dark beach, reflecting like metal the light from sea and sky, lay something which looked a like a cross between a bomb and a small aircraft.
“What the f**k is that?”
Roome’s voice shook with concern.
Slipping the gun back into its holster, I took the initiative.
“No idea.”
I lied. I knew exactly what I happened to be looking at. A Fieseler Fi 103R, code-named Reichenberg. A crewed version of the V-1 flying bomb, produced for attacks in which the pilot to parachute down at the attack site. Exclusively be carried out by the Leonidas Squadron, V. Gruppe of the Luftwaffe's Kampfgeschwader 200.
The Leonidas Squadron had been set up as a suicide squadron. Volunteers were required to sign a declaration which said, ‘I hereby voluntarily apply to be enrolled in the suicide group as part of a human glider-bomb. I fully understand that employment in this capacity could entail my own death.’
“Let’s get down there.”
I tried to curb my enthusiasm. I had travelled nearly 900 years back in time to stop the successful development of this craft. I knew the future, and it is not bright.
One of the policemen stepped forward.
“The easiest way is back down to the jetty and along, sir.”
“Right.”
*
Hermann Göring, tapped his cane against a wall map of the East Anglian coastline.
“We lost one of our pilots, test-flying a long-distance variants of the V-1 Fieseler Reichenberg, and it is believed to have crashed somewhere off the Suffolk coast, England. We think he came down around about 2 a.m. Thursday morning, but my staff in their all-knowing wisdom, didn’t let me know until today.”
He shook his head in anger, tapped the map again.
“Anyway, he’s here. Onehouse Island. A remote island off the Suffolk coast.”
“How sure are you he’s there, Reichsmarschall?”
“We’re sure. Wreckage has been spotted by one our U-Boats patrolling the area.”
“What happened, Reichsmarschall?”
“His Reichenbergs was air-launched from the back of an Arado Ar 234 Blitz. He trialled a launch from a ‘piggyback’ position, atop the aircraft. They used a pilot-controlled, hydraulically operated dorsal trapeze mechanism that elevated the missile on the trapeze's launch cradle about 8 feet clear of the 234's upper fuselage. This is necessary to avoid damaging the mother craft's fuselage and tail surfaces when the pulsejet ignited, as well as to ensure a clean airflow for the Argus motor's intake.”
“Couldn’t they come up with something less ambitious, Reichsmarschall?”
“You need to take that up with Oberst Max Wachtel, commander of Flak Regiment 155, who is responsible for the V-1 offensive, Mũller.”
“Yes, of course, Reichsmarschall.”
“The plan is to perform an extraction, Mũller. The Wehrmacht wants you to take in a handful of hand-picked troops and get Paul Schmidt off that island.”
“Of course, Reichsmarschall. There is of course, another way.”
He paused, then went on very quietly indeed.
“A way with a hundred per cent guarantee of success.”
Göring looked at Mũller in an odd manner. The Hauptsturmführer had heard the rumours concerning Goring’s morphine addiction but never believed it until now. His eyes were watering, and the pupils dilated. He appeared to be sweating copious amounts of perspiration. Well-known for his Irritability and agitation, he also sometimes showed signs of confusion and disorientation.”
“I do not claim to be infallible, Mũller. Have I missed an alternative? Do you have the answer to my problem?”
There appeared to be spite in his voice.
“Yes, Reichsmarschall. Use the Kampfgeschwader 200. The payloadange capacity of the Heinkel He 177 is almost like the four-engine heavy bombers used by the Allies, has a higher cruising and maximum speed that its Allied Counterparts.”
“Hauptsturmführer Mũller. Heinkel He 177 suffers from many design functions flaws, one of which is the need for at least 2,000 horsepower engines. The engine’s size is unproven, and the Daimler-Benz BD 606 system is collected in addition to cramped nacelles, which catch fire easily. The bomber is already become known as the Reich’s lighter.”
Mũller did not agree or disagree. He had nothing else to say.
Göring cleared his throat.
“That is, it then, Hauptsturmführer Mũller. Ten o’clock tonight at the airfield.”
Mũller stood up, clicked his heels together, and lifted his right-arm out straight.
“Yes, Reichsmarschall. Heil Hitler!”
Göring mirrored Mũller’s salute and then sat down behind his desk.
- Writer
